Chapter 12
More Than A Dream
The fire was spreading. It had been such an unnaturally dry summer, the ground was hard and brittle, the grass dying. Nobody was sure where the fire had started. A stray flaming arrow? It didn’t matter. It was spreading, and already some bodies were beginning to burn.
The stench of burning flesh was one you never forgot, and Brendan knew he’d smell it in his dreams for the rest of his life.
He limped across the battlefield, doubled-over, trying not to breathe in too much smoke.
He didn’t know the name of the man lying motionless on his back, only that the man was too injured to move out of the way of the fire.
Once Brendan reached their camp, by the river, he would drop the man like a stone and head back to collect another one.
He’d lost track of how long he’d been doing it. There and back again, there and back again, collecting any man who was too hurt to move himself, without worrying too much about whether he’d die of his wounds or not. Nobody deserved to die by fire.
The camp was quiet, men staggering about as if they were half-dead already.
Noah, the fresh-faced young man with big brown eyes like a deer, had been assigned to serve as Brendan’s personal aide only that morning.
He was glad to see that the young man still lived, although there was a nasty gash carved down his cheek.
Noah sat on an upturned stump before a pathetic, smoking excuse of a fire, staring at nothing in particular.
His fine velvet doublet was coated in blood, mud, and worse.
He didn’t seem to care, or even notice. He didn’t glance up as Brendan limped by.
Brendan let the man slide off his shoulders in front of the healers’ tent. He noticed dispassionately that the man wore Grahame tartan.
One of ours, then.
He turned to walk back down the hill—there was no time to waste—but a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, yanking him back.
“What are ye doing, boy?” snarled a grizzled, fearsome-looking veteran. His face was familiar, but Brendan was too tired to conjure up the man’s name from the depths of his memory.
“There are men down there,” Brendan responded bluntly, meaning that to be the end of the sentence. He turned away again, but the man pulled him back once more, harder this time. Red-raw, Brendan’s temper flared, and he rounded on him.
“Get yer hands off me,” he hissed. “Ye call me boy. Do ye know who I am? What I’ve done?”
“Oh, I know what ye have done,” the man insisted, coming almost nose-to-nose with him.
“I saw my own son on that battlefield. Fighting for the other side. That what’s ye and yours have done—turned brother against brother, father against son.
And yet ye still support him, don’t ye? Ye still think he is right to do this to us.
No other clan has such infighting, and he’s made it clear all rebels will be gutted by the end of this war. ”
There was no need to ask who he was. Part of Brendan was glad that he hadn’t been named.
“There’s no other way,” he whispered.
The man, suddenly looking older than ever, took a step back, shaking his head.
“Ye don’t believe that,” he whispered. “None of us do. None of us.”
Brendan turned on his heel, away from the man’s blank, accusing stare.
“Yer son,” he murmured. “Did he make it?”
No answer was given, but Brendan thought he’d gotten an answer anyway.
He began to walk, stumbling down the hill, smoke wafting across his path in great clouds.
His breath misted out before him. Before Brendan knew what he was doing, he was running.
Not towards the battlefield—he’d run to more battles than he could count, and wanted to run to no more—but away from it. Away from all of it.
He ran and ran until he could run no more, until the old man’s accusing eyes and the smoky, stinking battlefield were leagues behind. He ran until his legs gave out, and he plummeted to the ground, unconscious.
Brendan’s eyes snapped open. For an instant, the stench of smoke and burning flesh filled his nostrils, hanging about him like a cloak. Then he woke up fully, and the dream—perhaps memory would be more accurate—was gone. For now, at least.
He was lying on his back on a soft fur rug. His rug, he recalled, staring up at the familiar spider-webbing cracks on his own ceiling. Blankets were draped over him, and to his right, a fire smoldered in the hearth.
It was morning, and rich golden light drifted into the room. A thumping sound got his attention, and he glanced over to see Argentum, head on his paws, tail pounding against the floor. The dog almost looked as if he were smiling, and Brendan’s chest ached.
“Hey, there,” he whispered, and the thumping grew louder and harder.
Finally, Brendan became conscious of a weight on his shoulder, and a warm body pressed against him. His breath caught in his throat. Glancing over, he saw that it was Freya.
Freya, whose face had danced through his fevered dreams, driving him mad.
He remembered chasing after her, again and again, begging her to slow down, to wait.
He remembered reaching out, fingers almost brushing the long, fiery strands of her red hair, but he was never quite close enough to touch.
Nearly, but not quite, like a man dying of thirst only inches away from a cup of water, but not quite able to reach.
Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he slid his hand down to the vicious wound on his stomach. The pain was still there, throbbing regularly, but the heat and swelling had gone down, the skin not so tight as it had been before. Gingerly, braced against the rush of pain, he lifted his linen shirt.
His stomach was neatly bandaged, the savory, medicinal scent of a poultice stinging his nose. Even with the bandage, he could see that the infection was receding, the redness going down.
“Ye need stitches,” came a female voice, right in his ear, making him jump. “I should have done them last night, but I didn’t want to seal in the infection.”
He could feel her breath against his cheek, warm and soft. Her hair spread out over his shoulder, a stray lock tickling his ear. Brendan’s chest constricted.
“Ye saved me,” he whispered. “I was fevered. I… I couldn’t think straight. The last thing I remember is falling to the ground, and Argentum howling.”
The dog perked up at the mention of his name, tilting his head. Brendan noticed a lump in his throat.
“What are ye doing here?”
He wished he hadn’t said it like that. It sounded accusing, ungrateful, as if he hadn’t dreamt of her in his house, in his arms, every day since he’d met her.
He couldn’t be with her, of course, he’d always known that.
He couldn’t be with anyone, not with his past hanging over his head like a boulder ready to fall.
If she knew the truth, she wouldn’t want to be with him, either.
Freya sat up carefully, stretching out sore shoulders and a stiff back, not looking at him.
“I had a bad feeling,” she responded simply. “I came to check on ye, intended to be back within a few hours. There’s porridge for breakfast. Hungry?”
As soon as she said that magical word, hungry, Brendan realized that he was, in fact, starving.
He nodded, swallowing hard, and Freya threw a quick, wry smile down at him, and got to her feet.
He made to sit up and follow her, but she responded as if she could see him, despite having her back turned.
“Stay there. Don’t get up. Ye need rest, aye?”
“I’ve had worse wounds than this,” he responded. “I was just unlucky this time. Is there a needle and thread? I’ll sew it up myself.”
She cast a quick look over her shoulder. “Ye sure? I can do it.”
“I’ve sewn up my own wounds before. Besides, ye have done plenty.”
She still had her back turned, bustling around the kitchen. Taking a length of black thread and a curved needle out of a cupboard—she’d snooped around his house, then, Brendan realized with a wry smile—and handed them to him.
It was simpler to take off his shirt altogether, so Brendan did so. Besides, it was warm in the house. He got to work at once, unrolling the bandages and gently scraping off the poultice which had probably saved his life.
When he glanced up, Freya was looking at him, expression intent. The moment their eyes met, she reddened and looked away. Biting back a wince, Brendan got on with his bloody work. The pain was bad, but nothing he couldn’t handle.
“Did… did ye speak to me last night?” he asked, choosing his words carefully.
Her shoulders stiffened. “Maybe. What did ye hear?”
“Something about being a healer. About it being a bloody, dirty work.”
The shoulders relaxed. “Aye, that was me.”
“It’s clear that ye are a healer, though,” he remarked, gesturing with the bloody needle to the old poultice. “Ye could be useful in that convent, ye know. Ye could do some good.”
“I only know how to do a couple of remedies. I like being useful, but I am no healer.” Freya confessed. “I often felt… Well, I often felt in the way, which I suppose is the opposite of being useful.”
“I disagree. Sabotage is the opposite of being useful. Feeling in the way or not helpful only means that ye haven’t discovered what’s best for ye to do, yet.”
She considered this. “I suppose that’s a good way of looking at it.”
When the wound was stitched up, Brendan snapped off the thread, tying it securely, and rebandaged it. Freya came to sit on the rug beside him, with two steaming bowls of porridge and a smaller bowl for Argentum, who attacked the food as though he’d never eaten.
“They’ll have noticed I’m gone by now,” she said, voice quiet. “No sense in rushing back.”
“Ye saved my life,” Brendan said firmly. “The Abbess will consider that.”
“I hope so. Do ye think she’ll throw me out? Have I done too much? I’ve not been a good guest.”
He snorted. “Don’t worry, I’m sure that convent has seen worse than ye, lassie.”
She chuckled in response, and he thought he saw some of her tension melt away. She shot a quick, calculating look at him over the rim of her bowl, and he knew a question was coming.
“Ye talked when ye were feverish. I couldn't’ make any of it out.”
Brendan froze, remembering his dreams of chasing Freya, mad with desire and longing, stretching out for her, begging her to stay. He swallowed thickly.
“Oh, aye? What did I say?”
She cleared her throat, looking away. “Ye talked about blood and fire, and death. About doing all that ye could, but it not being enough. There is something ye aren’t telling me, Brendan.”
He stared down into the opaque depths of his porridge. A brusque retort sprung to his lips, a reminder for her to mind her own business.
She saved yer life. She didn’t have to. Where would ye be without her?
Ye thought ye could make it alone, eh? Well, ye were wrong.
“Do ye remember the Grahame Clan wars?” he said at last, voice tight.
She nodded shortly. “I remember.”
“Bloody things, they were. A faction rose up against Laird Grahame. Word had it that he was going mad, and they wanted somebody else as laird. Anybody else, really. They’d have accepted the laird’s son in his place, but Laird Grahame has never been a man to share power.
So, they fought. Battles and battles, till the rivers ran red.
Brother against brother, father against son.
Whole villages were levelled. It felt like it would never end, that whole, dry summer.
The last battle they called Fire Hill because a fire began and ate up the bodies of the dead and dying, loyalists and rebels together.
The rebellion was quenched along with the flames.
Since then, the clan has been too weak and afraid to rise up again. ”
“Can hardly blame them,” Freya muttered. “And ye, ye fought in that war?”
“Aye, I did. I was at that last battle, and after that, I decided I’d never fight again.”
She looked at him, gaze intent, and he knew it was only a matter of time before she asked him the question, the one that shamed him every day and night.
“Who did ye fight for?” she asked. “Rebels or loyalists?”
He considered lying, as always. As always, he told the truth.
“Loyalists,” he said, looking her in the eye. “I fought for Laird Grahame.”
She flinched, as if he’d made to hit her, and looked away.
“Oh,” she whispered.
“Aye, I know,” he responded, smiling mirthlessly. “It’s disappointing, eh?”
“No, no, not disappointing. But that war was a bad one, I know that much. Many losses on both sides. Ye only wanted peace, I daresay.”
“Aye, that I did. I used to dream of peace.”
They were quiet for a few moments after that. Brendan found his gaze dragged to the woman more often than before, his heart hammering.
“I tried to save them,” he heard himself saying. “I did. But it wasn’t enough.”
She reached out impulsively, taking his hand. Her skin was warm against his, and he could see where the mixing and picking of the herbs had begun to dye her fingers green.
“I know ye did,” she said, voice urgent and serious. “I know ye, Brendan, and I know ye are a good man, no matter who ye fought for. Laird Grahame might be an evil pig, but ye aren’t.”
He smiled faintly. “What a compliment. I am not an evil pig.”
A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Take it or leave it, laddie.”
“I’ll take it.”
There was another silence, more comfortable this time. He found himself looking at her again, and this time, when she glanced up and met his eyes, he didn’t look away.
“Why did ye come to save me?” he said, voice wobbling like a child’s.
“I’ve done nothing but push ye away. Ye, Freya, ye are always true to yourself.
Ye are just ye, no matter what happens to ye.
I buried myself behind layers of guilt, and I suppose seeing ye be so true and honest made me feel worse.
I’ve only pushed ye away, again and again, and yet here ye are. ”
She took a moment before answering. “I don’t give up easily,” she said at last. “It can be a good thing, but also a bad thing. I’m like a dog with a bone.
I was used to it, growing up. I was used to fighting for what I wanted, and even so, I rarely got it.
And then ye came along, and I… I’ve not felt like this before.
I can be selfish, and spoiled. I know my flaws, and I don’t try to hide them.
I want to be better, but at the same time, I believe that anyone who won’t fight for what they want doesn’t deserve it.
And I think I want ye, Brendan. Grumpy as ye are. ”
He swallowed thickly, loneliness and desire mingling inside him to make a dangerous concoction.
I want ye too, lass, he wanted to say. How could I not?
He didn’t say that, though, because words were difficult. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her.